I was never one for foreplay, so I thought I might make a good prostitute. Not your old run-of-the-mill hooker, but an escort. Someone who spent evenings attentively listening to businessmen in expensive restaurants and then went to a hotel room and fucked for cash.
I was intrigued by the plethora of ads in the classifieds, luring women with promises of $1,000 a night to be made as a 'high-class companion' or ‘discreet escort’ (they were never, I remember, 'hot babes'). I could do that, I thought. I was a mostly out-of-work actor. I didn't have a boyfriend, I needed the money. And there was a part of me that was genuinely curious about how it worked. I think every woman knows that, if she really had to, she could sell herself for sex.
I rang one of the numbers and said I was interested in applying, if that was the word. After taking down details like age, weight and hair colour, the mellifluous male voice on the phone said it was important we met. We arranged a rendezvous for the next afternoon in a donut shop in one of Toronto's less salubrious neighbourhoods… mine, actually.
I wore a tight top, short skirt and no underwear. I was on a dare with myself. I walked the half block to the cafe and when I walked in, it was busy, but I knew who he was. Silk shirt, black hair slicked back, expensive watch, leather filofax… he could have been a Saudi software salesman.
He asked me why I wanted to do this and I said that I had fooled around a bit with phone sex (which was true) and was open-mindedly looking for other challenges, or some-such vagueness. I tried to switch the conversation around, to ask him questions about the business. This didn’t go over well. At first he said I was a policewoman who was trying to entrap him. I felt a bit insulted, as if I didn’t look alluring enough. Then he accused me of working for another escort agency and wanting to steal his business. I was faintly flattered.
After about half an hour, we'd both finished our coffees (no donuts, it didn't seem appropriate), he said, “Ok, let’s go for a drive." As we walked out, it occurred to me that I had told no one what I was doing, who or where I was meeting, and was about go off with a complete stranger. I got in the car.
As we drove along the lakeshore, doors locked, air conditioning blasting against the sweltering summer, he put his mobile phone in the cradle and switched on the loudspeaker. He kept looking at me as a series of women left messages:
“Hi, I’ve finished with Ron and am going to take David now, upfront blow."
“Listen, Mr Mike wanted anal and I told him that is not what was discussed, so am waiting."
“Hey babe, a bit slimy Stephen but that’s what he likes, extra bucks for you."
I knew he was gauging my reaction, seeing if I was uncomfortable, so I didn’t say anything and tried to keep my expression relaxed. “What do you think of my girls?" he asked. “They seem pretty busy," I said. He laughed and then suggested we stop for a drink. We went into a bar and I ordered a white wine. "Ahh!" he said, "You're not a cop because you are having a drink!" He ordered a Coke and we sat down at the back of the empty bar.
He began to talk more about his girls, how he knew them personally and how he spent time with them, individually. He said a good relationship was really important and that each girl had to feel very comfortable with him alone. He emphasised that before the girls would work with him, he needed to have time with them intimately.
“You see, I have to be sure that they can do it. Do you think you can do it?" he asked. “Do you think you can have sex with a man you have just met? Do you understand what I am saying?"
I knew then that this was the test. He wasn’t going to put his girls on stage unless he was sure they could sing. I understand, I said. Sure, I could have sex with you. Now? he said. Now.
Some girls prefer a neutral space, like a hotel, he pointed out. Some prefer their own environment. Whatever is best for you. He was solicitous, as though he wanted to ensure I would be at ease. So we drove back to my flat.
We had sex on my sofa, we did not go into my bedroom. He didn't ask, I didn't suggest it. I took my own clothes off, he took off his. We didn’t kiss, but he did go down on me, expertly. I came. He put on a condom. The actual act took less than five minutes. It wasn’t rough, it wasn’t romantic, it was rudimentary.
Then we sat at my kitchen table, drinking water. He began to open up about his company. How the girls always met the man first, at the office, and clarified exactly what was wanted and the price. This was paramount, the man could not ask for extras later. Location was then arranged, one of the office apartments or the girl’s own place; he preferred the former. I expressed surprise at the lack of swish dinners in the itinerary. He said that was a myth. His girls usually did three or more men a night, there was no time for supper. Men don’t want all that shit.
The girls’ safety was important, he said. There was a whole ‘ABC’ system, where the girls phoned in with updates: A was to let the office know they were at the agreed locale (they’d phone and say something like, “Hi Andrea, just checking we’re on for lunch tomorrow"). B was if something was worrying, like the guy hadn’t agreed to hand over the cash first, a must. C was if there was a real problem…
“But there are never problems. My girls are professional,” he said. “You just made one mistake. You took all your clothes off before me. Always get the man’s clothes off first, then you’re more in control. Now, can you start tomorrow? I think you’d do well, a sexy blonde." It was his first compliment — sincere, but sly. I agreed I could start tomorrow and he said he’d call. He shook my hand and left.
Home alone, I pondered what I had done and realised I felt no shame, no guilt. All I felt was a quiet kind of triumph: I had proved that, if I had to, I could sell my ass for money. If this had been a movie, I would have jumped in a shower and scrubbed myself clean. But I felt no need. Neither did I phone a friend. I didn't feel emotionally damaged and I wasn't lonely. I went to bed and read a book.
I hadn't been paid (if he had offered money, I would have taken it) and I hadn't asked what his cut was. He had said his girls could make up to $500 a night. But that was five guys or more. It wasn’t a fortune. The whole scene seemed pretty labour-intensive. Escort really was just a euphemism.
When he called the next day, I said I was really sorry, but I had changed my mind and wasn’t ready for the job at this time. He seemed genuinely sad and said he hoped that he had not offended me in any way. He wished me luck in my future career. It didn't help… my acting pursuit never took off and a year later I gave it up and moved to London.
I am now eight years happily married. My husband knows about that night and is unfazed. It was long ago and no big deal. I tried the world's oldest profession on for size and it fit. I just decided not to keep it on.
A version of this story appeared in The Guardian newspaper under the title
